Dear Jim
by rogue planet 13
Summary: Fifth story in the 2017 Fanfiction Christmas Countdown. After receiving a cryptic letter, Jim decides to give Sherlock a mystery to solve for Christmas. In fact, mysteries are suddenly in uncanny abundance. Can Sherlock solve the real mystery of who is behind them all?


_Hey, everyone! Glad you've stuck with us this far in the Christmas countdown! Can you believe it's Christmas Eve tomorrow? O_O_

 _This story is set sometime around Season 3. I'm not doing a Season 4 story yet, since some people might not have seen it yet and I don't want to give out spoilers. If you haven't seen Season 3, this story might contain a few spoilers-my apologies._

 _Also, I am aware that Jim Moriarty is supposed to be dead, but I will never accept his death as canon, so he continues to appear in my stories._

* * *

Jim Moriarty sat at his breakfast table on the day before Christmas looking over his morning mail. He had a stack of unopened letters which he was methodically slitting open with a penknife, reading, and placing neatly on a second stack of opened mail. There were a lot of letters. Jim always got lots of letters, even though everyone was supposed to think that he was dead.

 _Dear Jim,_ read one letter, _please help me come up with a good alibi so I don't have to get hanged for murdering my ex-wife._

Jim slid the sheet back into the envelope and added it to the second pile without even bothering to read the entire thing. It was lengthy.

 _Dear Jim,_ read the next letter, _please send me the security codes for the Bank of England. If you could supply them, I will be eternally grateful. P.S. I have been very good this year._

 _Dear Jim,_ read another, _all I want for Christmas is for you to please kill off my annoying old uncle. He's left me a fortune in his will, but the old blighter won't pop off. Thanks very much._

Jim looked at the clock and then at the still significant stack of unopened mail and sighed. Being a consulting criminal was hard work. You would think people would take a break from all the crime committing for Christmas. The only person who worked harder than Jim at Christmas was Santa Claus, and at least the old fellow got the rest of the year off.

Jim decided he was only going to open one more letter. It was the day before Christmas, after all, and he had some last-minute Christmas shopping to do.

He took a letter from the stack and slit it open.

 _Dear Jim,_ the missive read, _please give my friend Sherlock a nice, difficult mystery to solve. He's so annoying when he's bored, and he's been shooting the wall again._

A slow smile spread over Jim's face as he read the letter. Christmas shopping would have to wait.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Jim arrived at 221B Baker Street and walked into Sherlock's flat. Sherlock was tuning his violin. He gave Jim a scowl.

"You're not dead," he observed.

"Did you miss me?" asked Jim with a winning smile.

"What do you want?"

"I brought you a Christmas present."

Jim took the letter from his pocket and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock glanced at Jim distrustfully and read the letter.

"Well?" said Jim, sitting down opposite Sherlock and helping himself to tea. "How do you like my present?"

"What's it supposed to be?" asked Sherlock.

"It's a puzzle. A nice, little puzzle to solve for Christmas."

"It's just a letter."

"Yes, but who wrote it?"

"Doesn't matter," said Sherlock.

"Of course it matters," said Jim. "Whoever wrote it calls you his friend. You told me you don't have friends. So the mystery is: who is Sherlock Holmes's friend?"

Jim sat back in his chair and prepared himself for some enjoyment. Sherlock glanced at him and then back at the letter.

"I've already solved it," he said.

"Okay, who?"

"There's no signature and the letter was typed, so no obvious indicators there," began Sherlock. "Mycroft always addresses me as 'brother' or 'little brother,' when he wishes to be particularly offensive, but never 'friend,' so that rules him out, and Mary's out too, because she likes it when I'm bored. The letter is written in John's style, but he no longer lives here, so he can't be annoyed by me shooting the wall. Mrs. Hudson hates it when I shoot the wall, so that bit points to her, but the letter is printed on Scotland Yard letterhead which would indicate that Lestrade wrote it, except for the fact that 'friend' was originally 'boyfriend' and the first part was whited out later—an obvious implication of Molly Hooper."

Sherlock paused for breath.

"Oooh, clever," said Jim, who was enjoying himself more than expected. "So which one of the four wrote it?"

"It was made to look like any one of them could have written it," said Sherlock. "The obvious conclusion is that none of them did."

"Who did, then?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but just then Mycroft walked in. He gave Jim a disapproving glare before handing Sherlock a flat, ribbon-bedizened package.

"Merry Christmas, little brother," he said. "It's a day early, but I thought you might like trying to guess what's inside before tomorrow."

Sherlock took the present with an expression of boredom. He shook it slightly. Something flat and heavy slid around inside. Sherlock's expression of boredom turned to puzzlement.

"Slippers? Greeting cards? Cake? A letter opener?"

Mycroft smiled.

"You might possibly be surprised after all," he said.

Sherlock tossed the package aside impatiently. Why was everyone giving him puzzles to solve when he just wanted to compose his new Christmas carol? He was about to pick up his violin again when Mrs. Hudson came in looking genuinely upset.

"Sherlock," she said, sounding close to tears. "There's been a break-in downstairs in my flat. Someone's stolen my pearl necklace. Oh, Sherlock, please catch whoever did it and get my pearls back. They're worth 1200 quid."

Sherlock got up resignedly and followed Mrs. Hudson downstairs to investigate the crime scene. Back in the flat, Mycroft glared suspiciously at Jim.

"It wasn't me," said Jim, looking hurt. He'd been much too busy to plan any Christmas crimes.

Downstairs, Sherlock was having difficulty figuring out the crime. The tracks left by the murderer looked almost like police boots. It was possible that Scotland Yard had decided to investigate Mrs. Hudson's flat—her husband had been the leader of a drug cartel, after all—but why would they steal a pearl necklace. He was scraping up some mud from a footprint when he got a call on his phone. It was John.

"Hello, Sherlock," said John. "I've got a bit of an emergency here. Do you think you could come over?"

"I'm on a case," said Sherlock. "There's been a break-in at Mrs. Hudson's."

"Right, well, I've lost Mary's file."

"You've what?"

"I've lost the memory stick with Mary's spy file on it. I think it might have been stolen."

"Have you told Mary?" asked Sherlock.

"Of course not. I pretended to burn the memory stick, remember? It would be a bit difficult to explain to her how I could have lost it."

Sherlock took a deep breath. It looked like his Christmas carol composition would have to wait.

"Where did you last see it?" he asked when he got to John's house.

"I had it locked in a strong box at my bank," said John.

"Someone broke into the bank?"

"Not exactly. Apparently, someone just walked into the bank and took it. Knew my bank account number, signed the forms… the teller swears it was me."

"So someone good with disguises."

"Really good," said John. "If the security camera footage can be believed."

"Sure it wasn't Mary?"

"Yes," said John with annoyance. "I'm pretty tolerably sure it wasn't Mary. I'm taller than her."

"No you're not," said Sherlock.

"You don't think it could be… you know… Moriarty?" said John uneasily.

"Highly unlikely."

"He might not really be dead, you know," said John.

"That's a distinct possibility," said Sherlock.

Sherlock was at the bank viewing the security camera footage when he got a call from Lestrade.

"Sherlock, I may need your help," said Lestrade. "I've got a case here that's baffling forensics. If you have a moment, I'd be obliged if you'd come over and have a look. I'm texting you the address."

"I'm on my way," said Sherlock, turning and heading for the exit. John hurried after him.

"Do you know who took it?" he asked.

"Working on it," said Sherlock.

He arrived at the crime scene and found Lestrade standing about with his hands in his pockets as usual.

"Well, what's so baffling about this one?" asked Sherlock.

"We found a car with a hefty amount of illegal drugs inside," said Lestrade. "We can't figure out who it belongs to."

"Why can't your men take care of it?" asked Sherlock peevishly. "I'm on three cases already."

"I thought it was only two," said John.

"Three," said Sherlock. "Mycroft gave me a stupid present and I can't guess what's inside it."

His phone dinged with a text from Jim Moriarty.

JM: You haven't told me the answer to my riddle yet.

It dinged again.

JM: Who sent the letter?

Sherlock texted back.

SH: You did.

"I just thought you'd like a case to solve," said Lestrade. "I thought you were getting bored."

"Who said I was bored?" asked Sherlock.

"No one," said Lestrade with a shrug. "You just seemed bored."

Sherlock's phone dinged twice.

JM: Wrong.

JM: Guess again.

Sherlock shoved his phone into his pocket impatiently. A police car pulled up and Anderson got out.

"We just got a call from St. Bart's hospital," he said. "They've found a body."

"A body?" asked Lestrade.

"A murdered body," said Anderson.

"A murdered body; it's Christmas, John," said Sherlock drily. "I'll be right over."

"What about this case here?" asked Lestrade. "Have you solved it?"

"No," said Sherlock, "but I think I may have just gotten a clue."

He hopped in the police car with John close behind, and Anderson drove off.

When they reached the morgue at St. Bart's, Molly Hooper led them to a table and unzipped a body bag on it. Sherlock examined the battered corpse with his tiny pocket magnifying glass.

"Looks like a nasty sort of murder," said Molly. "I hope you like it. Merry Christmas."

"Is that a confession?" asked Anderson suspiciously.

"No, no, of course not," said Molly, looking shocked. " _I_ didn't murder him. I just thought Sherlock might like a nice murder case for Christmas."

"Why does everyone think all I do is solve cases?" demanded Sherlock.

"Well…" said John slowly, "that _is_ all you do, isn't it?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. Yes. Yes, it was.

"Sometimes I play my violin," he said.

"When you're solving cases," said John.

"Don't you like it, then?" asked Molly. "Oh dear. I'll get you something else."

John gave Sherlock a dig in the ribs.

"It's a lovely present," said Sherlock with a faked smile.

He turned and headed out of the morgue.

"Have you solved it already?" asked Molly.

"Not quite," said Sherlock, "but I know where to look for clues. Come on, John. Back to Baker Street."

When they got to 221B, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Moriarty were all there eating biscuits in the living room and watching telly.

"Have you solved our cases, Sherlock?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Almost," said Sherlock.

He glanced at Jim. Jim looked back at him and tried to look innocent. He was surprisingly successful.

Molly came in behind John and Sherlock.

"Well, we're all here," said John. "We're all waiting for you to tell us the solution to our various mysteries."

"You tell them," said Sherlock to Jim. "It was you, wasn't it?"

"I already told you it wasn't," said Jim.

"It was you, it had to be you," said Sherlock.

Jim smiled and pulled several letters from his pocket. He read them out loud one by one.

 _Dear Jim, please help me steal Mrs. Hudson's pearl necklace. Regards, Greg Lestrade._

 _Dear Jim, please find a place for me to hide a memory stick. Some place Sherlock won't be able to find it easily. Or Mary either. Thanks for your help. Sincerely, John Watson._

 _Dear Jim, please get me several kilos of narcotics. The very best you have. Respectfully, Mrs. Hudson._

 _Dear Jim, how do you make a dead body look like it was murdered? Please advise. Sincerely, Molly Hooper._

Sherlock looked at the guilty faces in the room in disbelief.

"You all became criminals so you could give me crimes as Christmas presents?" he asked.

"We thought you were getting bored, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson.

"Yeah, you're so annoying when you're bored," said Lestrade.

"You wrote the letter," said Sherlock. "All of you wrote the letter."

"Well, Molly typed it, but we told her what to say, and Lestrade printed it out," said John.

"Were you surprised, Sherlock?" asked Molly hopefully.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "It was very… nice."

"Now why don't you play us something on your violin?" asked Mrs. Hudson. "Something Christmasy."

But Sherlock had just remembered that there was one final mystery still unsolved. He swooped on Mycroft's present. It wasn't Christmas Day yet, but he couldn't wait any longer. He ripped off the paper and opened a flat box. Inside was a note and a large, shiny magnifying glass. The note read,

 _To go with the hat._

Sherlock's eyes grew misty. He gave himself a shake; since when did Sherlock Holmes succumb to emotion? But he had gotten such a lot of nice presents this year.

"I don't have friends," muttered Sherlock, just to remind himself.

"Come on, Sherlock, play something," said Lestrade, and the others chimed in, Jim the loudest.

Sherlock picked up his violin and played "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," since he hadn't had time to practice anything else. The fire glowed in the grate and the lights twinkled on the Christmas tree. Instead of playing it sarcastically like he usually did, Sherlock put the tiniest bit of holiday cheer into the carol. After all, it was nice to spend Christmas surrounded by friends.

THE END

 _A/N: That's all from me, folks! Tomorrow go visit Ellethiriel's page for the next story in the countdown!_


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